Cathleen Schine - The Three Weissmanns of Westport

Frederick thought for a moment. He pursed his lips in a small, private smile, shook his head slowly, and said, "Truly? I think it's a match made in heaven. Those two will give each other a run for their money."

"But what about… well… the baby?"

A short, ugly laugh, though Frederick was no longer smiling. Annie was sorry she'd asked. Just to satisfy her curiosity? What if something awful had happened, a miscarriage, say? And what if there was no miscarriage? Your own son raising your baby, his baby brother? Very Tobacco Road.

Frederick said, "The baby, eh?" He looked at her closely. "You mean Gwen's baby, of course."

Annie said nothing. Her mother was gone. She had no mother.

"Gwen's baby is due next month." He gave her a sharp look with those eyes. No twinkle this time.

Annie forced herself to smile. "Well!" she said. She supposed she would never know exactly what had happened. But there was to be no Frederick Jr., of that she was sure. How liberated Frederick must have been that his mistake turned out to be a mistake. She imagined him discovering the news-an abortion? A simple lie?

Whatever Amber had done or not done, had said or not said, Annie realized suddenly that she didn't care.

"Things don't turn out the way we expect sometimes." Her voice held more meaning than she had anticipated.

Frederick raised an eyebrow.

"Things end," she said. "Don't they?"

"Pity," he said.

He kissed her cheek, back to his good humor, unruffled by the messy lives of others, even his own children's, even, especially, the mess of his own life. He smiled. Frederick's smile was magnetic, she could still feel its pull. But it was a magnet that had a switch, a convenient toggle to turn it on and turn it off. Frederick was always safe, drawing to him only as much as he wanted, giving back only as much as he wanted to give back, a self-sustaining, self-sufficient circuit, a private Marxism of the soul. Frederick could afford to have a twinkle in his eye.

Will he say Comedy of Errors? Annie wondered.

"A veritable Comedy of Errors," he said.

Annie thanked him silently for the "veritable." It would sustain her when she mourned his absence. For she mourned his absence even now, as he stood before her.

"I have to go," she said.

Annie held her sons in her arms, first Nick, then Charlie, and felt their broad, manly shoulders shake with sobs. She stroked their heads, her hands absorbing the shape, the warmth. How could she stop? She clung to them. During the funeral ceremony, she sat behind them, refusing to take her eyes off them. She remembered them as children, tiny children, asleep on the big bed in Betty's apartment, Charlie clutching his rabbit and a stale bagel, Nick in a basket. Betty sat upright between, looking first at one, then the other. For hours.

Miranda sat down beside her, took her hand.

Roberts sat quietly on her other side, his long legs tilted off to one side.

"I will miss her forever," Annie said. Her children's heads were beautiful. She could see them through her tears.

"Forever," Roberts said. He put his arm tenderly around her and drew her close. "It's true. You will."

As the cantor chanted his wailing ancient words, Annie cried loudly, as loud, even, as her sister. Then she rested her head on Roberts's steady shoulder and cried some more.

I am happy to have this opportunity to again thank my editor, Sarah Crichton, for being so good-humored and patient; and my equally good-humored and patient agent, Molly Friedrich, for being so utterly unlike Miranda Weissmann. Thank you also, Adam and Liz, for reading; thank you, Barbara, for giving me a place to read; and thank you, Janet, for reading and reading and reading.

Cathleen Schine is the author of The Love Letter, Rameau's Niece, and The New Yorkers, among other novels. She has contributed to The New Yorker, The New York Review of Books, The New York Times Magazine, and Vogue. She lives in New York City.